


The Mercy of the Stranger

by libraralien



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Death, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 21:29:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraralien/pseuds/libraralien
Summary: A little post S08E05 fix-it. A happy ending of sorts, for The Hound.





	The Mercy of the Stranger

He thought that what he was feeling might be peace, but he's not sure he would know it if he felt it. Maybe it was just from how much blood he had lost. He'd take it, either way. He wished he would hurry up and fucking die already.

He had managed to shove his cunt brother over the side of the crumbling staircase into the fire, but not before getting stabbed in the gut, the chest, the face, the leg. He had been close to death at least once before. This was worse. At least it wasn't the fire.

He would have have happily stayed put until he had bled out, he knew unconsciousness would come before death did, but the building was falling apart and much around it was on fire. Though the pure, immobilizing terror he had once felt when faced with fire was gone, some animal instinct in his bleeding gut told him he had to get away from it.

So, exhausted, he started to crawl. He had no direction in mind other than "away." And maybe moving would speed up the bleeding, and death would overtake him before the fire could.

Unfortunately, he had always been a stubborn bastard. For several long minutes he failed to die. Slowly, he crawled through destroyed rooms that might have once been familiar. It had been so long since he had been in the Red Keep, it might as well have been in another lifetime. Had he killed men in this room? Had he passed out drunk? Had he held a knife to a scared girl's throat, once upon a time, and demanded she sing for him while he wept? It all looked the same now, shaking as the city fell apart. He could barely see now anyway.

So he didn't notice her until he was almost crawling over her feet.

"Sandor?" Arya said, and Gods, he thought, he had always been ugly enough that people knew who he was when they saw him. He must look truly fucked.

"Aye," he said, blood falling out of his mouth and splashing to the floor when he opened his mouth, "What are you doing here? If you are here to kill Cersei, she's not there anymore. And if you are here to save me, it's too late."

"I can see that," she said plainly. He could feel her looking carefully at him. He wanted to tell her to run, but he had pushed up against her iron will before.

"I would hate for you to have crept back here looking to take a name of your little list and leave disappointed," he paused, but she didn't react. He knew what he wanted to ask, but ridiculously, he felt embarrassed to say it.

"The kind thing to do, when you have an old, sick dog is put it out of its misery. When it...attacks anyone who tries to get close to it...isn't any use to anyone anymore."

She was ready to let him ramble again, but there was no need from him to egg her on or beg this time. He relented.

"Kill me?"

She nodded, and as if she had been waiting for him to give the invitation, knelt beside him. He let her flip him over and ease his head into her lap. He could distantly feel her moving his armor out of the way, tearing his shirt so she would have a clean stab at his chest. It was a testament to all she had seen that she didn't even react to what he was sure was the sorry and bloody mess of his body. He could feel the cool touch of the tip of her sword. She was wasting no time, but why should she? He forced himself to focus on her and could see her looking intently at where her sword was positioned against him.

"Wait!" he gasped "Look at me?" Once it would have come out as a harsh demand, but now he said it so soft he might as well have been begging. She picked up the edge of his torn shirt and spat on it, then gently wiped the dirt and blood from his face, the way a mother might to a sticky child. His cheek stung when the cloth moved over it and he gave a small wince. It made him realize that nothing else hurt anymore. He was beyond pain, now.

"You still remember where the heart is?"

She gave a tiny smile, and wiggled her sword gently against his chest, indicating that it was right where it needed to be, not taking her eyes off of his face.

He made a small motion of affirmation. He was ready.

Being killed by Arya Stark was like holding a sword of Valyrian steel, or seeing a ladies' dress, embroidered so fine you knew fingers had bled making it. For her, killing was an art,  _her_ art. She had killed to save herself, for revenge, then to save them all, and now she was giving him the gift of mercy by killing him.

He could barely feel the sword going into his body, but rather, felt it as as an acceleration of the sensation he had been experiencing ever since he had watched as his brother crashed and burnt in the fire below.

He had identified it as "dying", but maybe it was also happiness. He was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was crying, but not from fear or misery. He had killed his brother. Arya was here to see him off, and she knew what he had done. She understood the power of revenge, of killing.

Hells, she might even survive all this. She might even tell people what he had done.

They might even sing songs about him one day, he thought. 

Fuck that.


End file.
